Eradication
by Vanaerys
Summary: Draco deals with his father in the only way possible. Rated for definite patricide.


Disclaimer: Much as I love Draco to itty-bitty pieces, he's not mine. Nor is Lucius, or Malfoy Manor, or Hogwarts, or Harry Potter and his loyal Henchmen, or anything else that Rowling created.

However, the Firebolt 3000 is all mine, because that model is not out yet. ::glomps::

Author's Note: The author of this piece would like to make it known that all reviewers of aforementioned piece will recieve a year-long supply of gratitude and hugs. And perhaps some chocolate, depending on how generous she feels. The more reviews, the more generous. Chocolate is good.

_--_

_What was I to you?_  
  
A pawn, an instrument, a tool. A puppet to do your bidding, and the bidding of your Lord. I had no life of my own, no thoughts of my own, no feelings or opinions that had not been carefully planted in my mind and incorporated into my very being by you.  
  
_You.  
_  
But you see, Father, it couldn't last forever. I grew up, and in doing so, I learned that a world existed that was so different, so apart from the only one I've known my whole life. It's intoxicating, this new world I've found, away from you and the legacy of pain and perversion that's been passed down from generation to generation in our family. I'll have no part in that, and you can't force me.  
  
You can't force me. What an odd concept it is that drifts freely through my mind. You used to be able to force me, I remember. Mother refused to even look at you, and so you turned to me. I wonder if she knew how twisted you were when she married you. She probably did--even when I ran crying to her, she never said anything, never even tried to stop you. And soon after as you tainted me, she refused to look at me as well.  
  
It wasn't even my fault.  
  
It's probably just as well that she's dead, or her lot would be the same as yours will be soon.  
  
I'm coming for you, Father.  
  
It's a hollow, detached sort of feeling that I have now as I don my cloak and steal out onto the grounds of Hogwarts with my broom. It's the latest model, a Firebolt 3000--but you already knew that, didn't you? You bought it for me when I was made captain of the Slytherin quidditch team. I never received a word of congratulations, though. The only thing you said in your letter was that if I couldn't beat Harry Potter with this, then I was no son of yours.  
  
Trust me, Father--not only do I have more important things on my mind right now than beating Harry Potter in quidditch, but I've never been a true son of yours. Just your little puppet-boy whore.  
  
The grounds are silver with the light from the moon tonight. It's a fleeting, ephemeral sort of beauty that only the damned could truly appreciate. I wish you could see it.  
  
I'm flying North quickly now, outdistancing even the wind that blows my hair back from my face. It could be an hour that I've been flying, or it could be five. I don't care. I begin to recognize landmarks, and soon it's time to say the words that reveal the Unplottable expanse of Malfoy Manor. It's an inkblot on the landscape below that rapidly rears into a menacing shadow above me as I land on the immaculate lawn. It reminds me forcibly of your unwanted, and, until recently, unyielding presence in my life. Maybe once I'm done with you, I'll burn it. Stand back and laugh as the flames destroy everything left of my former life.  
  
I think I may be insane. Does it matter?  
  
I know the place of my birth well, and it's not long before I'm in your bedroom again. It's interesting how I remember the most insignificant details of it, even after all these years. The memories crowd before my mind's eye: the way the shadows crept across the floor and reached dark tendrils onto the bed, wrapping it in darkness; the way the knots and grains in the paneled wood of the wall seemed to grin at me, as if a hundred deranged faces lay trapped in their depths; the way your silver- blonde hair, too like unto my own, lay spread across the pillow, damp with sweat after the night's exertions.  
  
Standing in a bar of the serous moonlight, I merely look at you for a long while. I don't wake you, or move a muscle; even in your sleep, you'll realize that I'm here soon enough. You haven't seemed to age at all; you always boasted, with typical Malfoy vanity, of our lasting Veela beauty.  
  
Mere minutes later, my patience is rewarded by the sight of you opening one gray eye, then both; at that moment, you sit up and truly see me.  
  
I smile.  
  
You know why I'm here, don't you, Father? I can see it in your eyes, the way they widen slightly, and then narrow into ice-cold slits, the same way mine do when I'm irritated. Funny that even though I'm nearly grown, even though you know what reasons I have for retribution against you, even when the moments of your life are becoming increasingly evanescent--I'm still only an irritation.  
  
But it is of no consequence; I will do what I came here to do, Father. There is no going back, now that my demons have awoken. They cry out for death, and death they shall have.  
  
I move around the bed so that I am standing close to you. Looking more carefully, I can see that there are dark shadows under your eyes, and your face is wan like the moon on the last night before it disappears. Except that the moon is rebirthed, eventually, and waxes again in its magnificence; once you are dead, you will not.  
  
Not that you were ever magnificent.  
  
It never occurs to me to find it odd that you aren't doing anything to stop me. We merely look at each other in silence, our eyes conveying more than we could with words. You knew this time would come, and you face it proudly.  
  
I did not know this time would come, but it is here all the same, and I am to be your judge this night.  
  
As I raise my wand, I notice a strange thing happening: my cheeks have become wet with tears that I didn't feel gathering. They are beading on my eyelashes, weighing them down and blurring the room. I try not to blink, and draw a deep breath instead.  
  
I do not need to worry about the killing curse not working; I'm older, and have enough power. It's fueled by hatred, hatred and sorrow that I can feel rushing up and down through me and slowly bleeding out with the tears. I have to go quickly, now.  
  
It's time.  
  
My voice is steady and low as I say the words, and a jet of viperous green light bursts forth from my wand. It only takes a moment, and then it's over. Your head falls back onto the pillows, and one out of two pairs of icy-gray eyes in this room are closed forever.  
  
You're dead, father. Exceedingly, irrevocably, and completely dead. And for once in your life you look as if you truly have peace.  
  
I leave Malfoy Manor quietly, not even stopping to remove the heavy signet ring from my father's cold finger. I had thought that I wouldn't care who found out what I've done, but now I find that I do. Besides, I'll receive it eventually, along with everything else my father owned.  
  
The time it takes to fly back to Hogwarts and sneak down into the dungeons seems like nothing, the blink of an eye, even though I know that it's been hours and dawn will be coming soon. I fall into bed and sleep a dreamless sleep, and am awakened by a summons to the Headmaster's office. I'm not suprised, of course.  
  
The otherworldly feel of last night has vanished, and as I walk down the corridors I am keenly aware of the other students looking at me, and I hear their whispers as I pass. I know what they're saying, and I regard them all expressionlessly.  
  
I've obviously slept through breakfast.  
  
Much to my surprise, only a corridor away from the Headmaster's office, I'm accosted by none other than Potter, backed by his loyal henchmen, Granger and Weasley. Potter sticks his hand out gamely and says, "I'm very sorry to hear about your loss, Malfoy."  
  
I'm too stunned for a moment to even reply, and I look at his hand. Loss? What loss? I know what the students are saying in the corridors, but...loss? I can hear Weasley griping behind Potter, and it jerks me back to reality.  
  
"I'll bet he did him in himself, slimy git..." Hermione elbows him sharply, and I decide to do the unexpected: I take Potter's hand, shaking it firmly and noting with amusement the way his eyes widen in shock.  
  
"Thank you," I say quietly, and move on down the corridor. I can practically hear their mouths working in astonishment, and I have to force the small smile from my face as I'm admitted to Dumbledore's office.  
  
Weasley had no idea how right he was.  
  
The old man stands from behind his escritoire, and I can feel the sagacious gaze attempting to penetrate my blank facade. Then he sighs wearily.  
  
"I'm sorry, Master Malfoy, but I have some regrettable news..."  
  
And as he continues, all I can feel is the overwhelming satisfaction of a job well done.


End file.
